


Far Orbit

by scififan27



Series: Aftermath [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blood, Flying, Interrogation, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-08 05:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13451565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scififan27/pseuds/scififan27
Summary: After the defeat over D'Qar, the Resistance begins its rebuilding efforts by going back to its roots: small cells with limited communication between them.





	1. Chapter 1

A flight of T-65Bs dipped down into a steep-sided canyon, and crept along on repulsors. The canyon forked ahead of them. They banked left at the fork, their red striped hulls gleaming in the bar of morning light they passed through before slowly passing through the doors of a hangar dug into the rock face, and setting down beside an aged YT-1300 light freighter.

Below the forward arms of the YT-1300 stood six figures. Leia stood flanked by Poe and Chewie. The breeze kicked up by the repulsors of the nearest X-wing ruffled their hair. At Poe’s feet sat Beebee-ate, who chatted so rapidly with Artoo that Poe couldn't follow their conversation. Threepio stood in silence, a rare luxury for those used to having their ears talked off by the protocol droid.

One by one, the canopies of the fighters opened. The element leader threw a lazy salute to General Organa, then removed his helmet before climbing out of his fighter. On the ground, he grimaced as he stretched out the kinks from being cooped up in the cockpit, then walked toward Organa.

The rest of the pilots followed him, with the same tired body language, their expressions just as grim as his.

“I'm so sorry, Leia,” Wedge said as he wrapped her in a hug.

Leia smiled, but it was the bittersweet smile everyone in the Resistance had gotten used to seeing over the past few days, the one all of them who could find something to smile about had been wearing. “Thank you.”

Tycho gave Leia a hug too. “Winter sends her condolences. She’ll be here in a day or two.”

Janson and Hobbie each hugged Leia as well.

That brought their fighter compliment up to a grand total of four. Five if they could get the fighter hangar doors unfrozen. Poe sighed, then immediately wished he hadn't, his ribs reminding him that, one, the explosion in the hangar had been less than a week ago, and two, they ached from all the blasted crying he'd been doing.

“You look dead on your feet, Dameron,” Wedge remarked.

Poe shrugged. “There are people worse off than me.”

Beebee-ate warbled.

Hobbie gave Poe a sympathetic look. “Broken ribs aren't fun, are they?”

“Of course you’d know that, Hobbie,” Janson teased.

Hobbie reached his arm out to swat the back of Janson’s head. Janson ducked it, and glared vibroblades at Hobbie. Their expressions had brightened a little.

Wedge and Tycho gave each other a long-suffering look.

Leia looked at Poe, irritation mixed with concern in her eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

“One broken rib, four bruised. It hurts, but the med droids on the Raddus said it wouldn't kill me.” Poe felt a pang of nausea when he thought of the Raddus again, of all the people they'd lost, the friends he'd never see again. He was still waiting for some of them to land in the hangar, or come knocking on his door with a holo and a few brews. Snap, and Jess, and Karé, all dead. He looked down at the floor, not wanting to see his pain echoed in Leia’s expression.

Beebee-ate nudged Poe’s leg, and beeped soothingly.

Poe crouched down to rest a hand on Beebee-ate’s domed head. He ran the tip of his thumb over the seam between two plates on Beebee’s head. “I'm okay, buddy.”

Poe looked up at Leia. “Do you want me to find quarters for them, General?”

“Please, Commander.”

Poe’s brow quirked. “Commander, ma’am? You demoted me to Captain.”

“I did,” Leia said. “However, I said exactly what I meant.”

Poe stood, and saluted. “Thank you ma’am.”

Leia smiled instead of returning his salute. “I'd like you all to join me in the command center in an hour.”

  


After the Rogues were settled in, they joined Leia, Chewbacca, and Poe in the command centre. The holomap at the center of the room remained off, and the group sat around it.

Leia looked at Wedge. “You four were the first to answer our distress signal, what have you heard from the rest of the Resistance?”

Wedge shook his head, “less than I'd like. Mirax hasn't heard from Corran in weeks, not since an Inquisitor started snooping around. He may be playing follow-best, but I don't know for certain. However, the Errant Venture is en-route, my people with it.”

Janson leaned back in his seat. “My cell can get here, but I think if we leave the sector, we risk losing any public support we've built up. By keeping the pirates at bay, we've been able to build a lot of good will with the people that live there.

“I _can_ redirect supplies earmarked for my forces to send them here. Myn and Kirney have been keeping us well supplied with parts for fighters and fuel.”

Hobbie nodded. “My group have suffered a bit of a setback. A New Republic anti-terrorism task force just raided our weapons cache. I can supply manpower, but we lack the equipment to be useful.”

Tycho nodded thoughtfully. “I’m surprised the Wraiths dropped the ball on alerting us to that. I’ll have to talk to Loran again, it might mean they’re compromised.”

“Operations in the Brak sector are going smoothly.” Tycho said. “We have the support of one of the noble houses of Bacrana, and with it, a good base of operations. Most of the noble houses don't view the First Order as a threat to their existence. The commoners do, however.”

Tycho looked at Poe. “The only other person I've heard from is Sergeant Dameron. We should expect supplies from Yavin some time in the next week.”

Poe nodded. “He said he'd contact me this morning, but he hasn't yet.” He looked at his chrono. _Still two more hours._

Wedge folded his arms. “The answer is probably pretty grim, but what resources do we have here?”

Poe shook his head. “Fighter compliment stands at four, including your fighters. If we can get the fighter hangar doors working, you can add one atmospheric fighter to that. With the parts we have now, we can’t make it spaceworthy. We have more pilots than fighters, and not nearly enough technicians to repair the other fighters.”

Poe consulted the datapad Finn had handed him before he'd collapsed into bed. “Ground forces are slightly better off. We have one squad of ten, and enough Clone Wars era weaponry to equip a battalion.”

“That solves the problem of the confiscated weapons cache,” Hobbie said.

“Food… we have a lot of rations, which are edible, but damaging morale. The only person not bothered by the food is Finn, but he's used to stormtrooper rations.”

Poe laughed at the grimaces the old Rogues gave him, until his ribs twinged.

“So, what you're saying,” Janson said, “is we have weaponized food to throw at the enemy when we run out of grenades?”

“Doubtful. But Finn thinks they taste better than First Order field rations, so they might work as a bribe.”

“That sounds like a Wraith Squadron strategy,” Janson said.

Wedge looked at Janson. “If you can figure out a workable strategy for that, I'm all ears.”

Leia looked to Hobbie. “Would your people be willing to relocate here?”

Hobbie shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ll ask. Mostly, they’re locals defending their home system. It’s a different kind of dedication to fight for the whole galaxy.”

Leia nodded sagely.

 

After the command meeting, Wedge followed Poe. “Poe, can we talk?”

Poe shrugged. “I don't see why not.”

“It might be best to have this conversation in private,” Wedge said, his voice serious and professional.

“My quarters won't work for that. I'm bunking with Finn and Rey,” Poe said.

“My quarters, then?”

“Sure,” Poe said with a shrug of his shoulders.

The two of them took a right turn at the next t-junction in the hallway, leading them past the mess hall.

“What’s this about? Is this professional or personal?” Poe asked. While it seemed from the tone of Wedge’s voice that this wasn't going to be just a friendly chat, Poe wanted to be sure.

Wedge mulled over how best to answer Poe's question. “Professional, but off the record.”

They reached Wedge’s quarters, and stepped inside. Wedge waited until the door closed behind them. “I know you don't want to feel like you're letting everyone down, but if you don't slow down and let your injuries heal while you're grounded by technical issues, you'll take longer to get fighting fit when people do need you flying.

“I understand that any time you're not busy is time for you to stop and think, I saw a lot of that after the Krytos Plague. But for Leia’s sake, please start taking care of yourself. She's lost everyone else, and she thinks of you as her surrogate son.”

Poe nodded. “I'm aware of that, but right now, we don't have the luxury of sitting back and relaxing, and paperwork is not my strong suit. What I _can_ do is fly, and repair fighters.”

Wedge smiled, and patted Poe on the shoulder. “Paperwork wasn’t my strong point either. But these days it seems I do more paperwork than anything else. You know where to find me if you need to blow off steam.”

Wedge’s touch brought back more memories, of the simulated dogfight over D’Qar, and returning to Wedge’s quarters for a drink that had turned into several more.

“Thanks, Wedge.”

With that, Wedge opened the door. Poe stepped out into the hallway, followed by Wedge. They parted ways, Wedge going back the way they'd come, and Poe continuing down the hallway to his quarters.

Inside the quarters he shared with Finn and Rey, the former stormtrooper was fast asleep, snoring slow and even. Finn desperately needed the sleep after spending hours at Rose’s side in the medbay, so Poe crept quietly around the room, making every effort not to wake the exhausted former Stormtrooper. Poe put Finn’s datapad down on the table between his and Finn’s bed. His comm chimed, and Poe stepped out into the hall to answer it.

“Dameron.”

“You sound better, mijo. Did you get some sleep?” Kes’ voice had that same soothing tone he'd used a lot after mom had died.

“Some. I kept rolling over onto my broken rib and waking myself up.”

“I thought you said you didn't have any serious injuries.”

“Broken ribs are only a problem if I need to fight or fly. We've only got four operational fighters, and though I hate to admit it, four much better pilots than me.”

“We still have your mother’s A-wing.”

Poe thought it over. He was familiar with it, it was the first ship he’d ever flown, it was a much better choice than a Headhunter, much more capable, and he knew it was space worthy. The question was, if it was destroyed, could he handle losing another link to his mother? More importantly, did his personal feelings on it matter more than the survival of the Resistance?


	2. Chapter 2

Esk squadron formed up into three diamond formations following line astern, and roared through atmosphere. As they reached the blackness of space, the buffeting of their TIE Interceptors stopped, and all went calm and peaceful.

Approaching the New Republic vessels, the leader of the formation changed his comm to all open frequencies. “New Republic cruiser Selonia, I am Captain Arlen Tarra of the Rago sector defense fleet. State your purpose here.”

“Captain Tarra, I am Captain Kai Ov’An of the New Republic military. Our purpose here is to encourage your compliance with the Military Disarmament Act.”

“You'll have to discuss that with Admiral Dystra. I'm not authorised to negotiate with you at that level.”

Suddenly, the sensor board was covered in red dots. “Report, Esk Squadron.”

“First Order vessels, sir. A  _ Resurgent _ -class, one Nebulon K, four  _ Dissident _ -class,” answered Flight Leader Madon.

_ Damnit, of all the times for a First Order fleet to show up. _

Once again, Captain Ov’an’s voice came over the comms, “Rago sector forces, power down your weapons, or you will be fired upon.”

“Negative, Selonia, be advised, incoming vessels are not-”

The New Republic fighters locked their s-foils into attack position, and screamed toward Esk squadron.

_ Oh for kriff’s sake! _

“New Republic forces, those capital ships are  _ not _ ours. Cease your attack on Esk squadron, or you  _ will _ be fired upon.”

“Captain, Esk Two. Orders, sir?” Syko’s voice, sharply accented, was as frosty as ever.

The New Republic fighters kept coming, while the bombers turned back toward their cruiser. While that did make the odds a little less intimidating, the Interceptors were still outmatched by the squadron of new T-85 X-wings.

Truthfully, they'd have been outmatched even against T-65s, the contemporary fighters to the TIE Interceptor. With shields, the X-wings could weather the occasional laser cannon impact. Conventional tactics during the Galactic Civil war had been to deploy three Imperial fighters for every one X-wing. They didn't have that luxury now.

What they  _ could _ do was use the First Order as a force multiplier. The First Order would consider the X-wings to be the larger threat, and would focus their defenses on the New Republic fighters. He just needed to draw the X-wings into range of the First Order’s ships.

“Loose finger four vic, fly through the X-wing formation, take shots of opportunity.”

Even before he’d finished giving the orders, his squadron were already changing formation, second and third flights shifting from following in the wake of one flight, to form a vee.

The distance between the squadrons closed quickly. Arlen weaved his fighter around within his spot in the formation as the first of the red bolts came toward his fighter. Most went wide, though some passed through the gaps between his wings and the cockpit. One grazed the inside of the portside wing, sending a hum through the hull of the fighter as the energy discharged across its ablative surface.

Arlen returned fire, splashing his lasers over the X-wing’s forward shields, but not expecting anything to get through. The X-wing loomed large in his forward viewport now, and Arlen finally pulled up to avoid crashing into the X-wing’s shields.

Arlen hit the comm transmit button. “Wingover on my mark. Three, two, one, mark!”

Almost as one, Esk squadron performed wingovers. Third flight looked a bit chaotic on his sensor board, their finger four getting a bit snarled, but they managed to pull through without colliding with each other.

“Messy, three flight. Tighten it up.”

The X-wings were already turning to face them, split into three flights of four themselves. The Y-wings meanwhile continued their vector back to the  _ Selonia _ .

“Direct all power to engines, and punch through their formation again, Esk. Top speed toward the…” Arlen checked his tactical computer, looking for the name of the  _ Resurgent _ -class ship, “Cataclysm.”

A message flashed on his HUD. “Really, A?”

Only Syko sent messages directly to his HUD like that. Arlen keyed in his response. “Yes.”

“Crazy K!” flashed on his HUD.

Arlen laughed. Syko had been calling him Crazy K for years. Originally, it had been Crazy K’rell’n, but the mockery other humans gave him for his Cheunh accented pronunciation of Corellian had seen it shortened to K.

_ Come on, launch your fighter screens _ , Arlen thought.

Four klicks from the Star Destroyer his sensors showed fighter launches from the First Order capital ships.

_ Thank you, you predictable kriffwits. _

“Stay alert, First Order fighter screens launched.”

Arlen directed his attention back to flying again, pointing the nose of his fighter at the enemy’s X-wings. Once again, the shots from the X-wing cannons zinged by perilously close to his fighter. As his formation flew back through the X-wings, four fighters disappeared from his sensors. Three of his own squadron, and one X-wing.

He caught a glimpse of the solar panels of one of the Interceptors spiralling off into space.

“Three, Four, on me, we are Aurek Flight. Two, you lead Six and Seven, you are Besh Flight. Nine, Ten, Eleven, you are Cresh Flight. Proceed to target  _ Cataclysm _ .”

“Roger that, Lead,” answered Nine.

“Affirmative, Lead,” said Syko, peeling out of formation to join Six and Seven.

Though Arlen felt uneasy about separating from his wingman, Syko was the most experienced pilot, besides himself, which made him the best choice for a flight leader.

It took a long time to cover the distance to the First Order’s fighter screen, and to survive it, Arlen had to make his fighter  _ dance _ , as bolts of red zipped past his fighter.

And then they were in range for the First Order.

“Esk squadron, break!”

His squadron scattered. Green death came from ahead, while red death came from behind, and all comms chatter from his squadron stopped as the pilots focused on nothing but their survival.

Five more of Esk squadron’s fighters disappeared from his sensor array, their fighters disintegrating under the onslaught of lasers. A shot hit Three and sent his fighter careening into Four, and Arlen was on his own.

Ten was alone too. Syko still had one wingmate, Seven, perhaps by luck as much as skill.

The First Order fighters focused on the X-wings, except for a single squadron that peeled off to follow Esk squadron.

“Two, with me. Ten, Seven, follow us.”

Far behind them, the Y-wings and the Selonia sped away from the battle, faster and faster, until they disappeared from his sensor board entirely. They'd made the jump to lightspeed.

The X-wings, now not needing to protect their capital ship, were mired in a furball with almost the entirety of the First Order’s fighter complement.

Now that the New Republic forces were no longer on their tails, Arlen wasn't sure what to do. They couldn't flee to hyperspace, having no hyperdrives in their Interceptors, and at this point, defending Vigilance base from a First Order bombardment was an impossibility. That left three choices, but he was only willing to give orders for two of them.

“Esk squadron, I'm out of ideas. Two choices: surrender, or fight. Two?”

“Surrender,” Syko’s voice was even and measured.

“Seven?”

“Fight,” answered Drayen. His answer was entirely expected. He was scrappy and full of bluster, almost to the point it was subversive.

“Ten?”

“Surrender,” Madon said, his voice tense, a little higher in pitch than usual.

Arlen agreed with them, surrender was the most survivable choice. Arlen switched his comm back to open frequencies. “This is Captain Arlen Tarra, Esk squadron, Rago sector defense. We surrender.”

The squadron pursuing Esk squadron kept coming, but didn't fire.

A haughty, clipped voice with a hint of a Commenor accent came on the comms. “Acknowledged, Captain Tarra. This is  _ Cataclysm _ . Power down your weapons. You will follow all commands from Krayt squadron.”

“Acknowledged,  _ Cataclysm _ .”

Arlen flipped a switch on his flight yoke, powering down his weapons.

A couple of seconds later, another voice came over the comm. “Krayt Lead to Esk Lead, confirm weapons cold.”

“Affirmative, Krayt Lead, weapons cold.”

“You will follow the set of waypoints I will send you after I have finished speaking. You will do so at a speed of 500 MGLT, and you will not deviate from this. If any one of you fails to follow these orders, you will be destroyed. Acknowledge?”

“Acknowledged, Krayt Lead.”

His HUD showed an incoming nav data packet. He pressed a few buttons on the navicomputer, and accepted the data packet. Waypoints glowed red on his HUD. The final waypoint placed them between the Nebulon-G and one of the  _ Dissident _ -class ships. The course took them in an arc under the ongoing fighter battle, though a little too close for Arlen’s comfort. The First Order fighters had shields, and could withstand stray fire, but the aging Interceptors were more fragile, and some had already taken a few hits in the battle.

In the swirling maelstrom of fighters, the X-wings had an advantage, despite being outnumbered almost six to one. For them, it was a target rich environment, and they had less need to check their fire. They fired wildly within the swarm of TIEs, destroying them one by one.

Every so often, an X-wing would be forced to the edge of the swarm, and that was when the First Order would pounce, many laser bolts streaking toward one fighter.

Arlen’s nerves prickled as they came about to follow the waypoints. Another X-wing rose to the surface of the furball as he watched. Green lasers lanced out at it, most hitting their mark. One shot made it through, and with a sickening lurch, Arlen realised it was going to hit Syko’s fighter. “Two, break to port!”

Syko’s fighter twitched at the last second, then turned into a lazy spiral.

Krayt squadron opened fire on Esk squadron as soon as Syko’s fighter broke from formation.

Arlen jinked his fighter high and to starboard, and saw the bolts streak past below him. “Two, report.”

No answer.

“Two, report!” he demanded, raising his voice.

No answer.

“Syko?” This time his voice was weaker with the gut-wrenching realisation he’d just watched his closest friend die.

Another flurry of shots zipped past Arlen's cockpit from behind. “Krayt Lead, Esk Lead. Hold your fire! Esk Two is dead. No response to my hails.” With the increased stress, more of his natural Coronet City accent emerged to replace the carefully schooled High Coruscanti accent preferred in officers of the Imperial Remnant.

Krayt Squadron’s lasers continued to flash past him. They’re not listening.

“Kriff this, I won’t be shot at without retaliating” Drayen said over the squadron frequency.

There would be no negotiating with Drayen on that, Arlen knew. It was one of those fatal flaws that no amount of training could overcome. Drayen was like a slice hound, once he was unleashed, he was hard to regain control of.

“Wait! Together! Weapons hot, arm missiles, throttle hop, launch two missiles, on my mark. Three… two… one… mark!”

As one, Drayen, Madon and Arlen’s fighters came to a stop. Krayt Squadron overshot them.

Arlen blind fired two missiles into the flight of First Order fighters ahead of him. To his port and starboard, Drayen and Madon did the same.

Only one of the missiles hit its mark, Drayen’s first missile detonating on the shields of one of the Order’s TIEs. The explosion of Drayen’s second torpedo tore the unshielded TIE apart, sending debris into his squadron mates. The other missiles detonated inside the enemy formation to less devastating effect.

“Lasers!” Arlen shouted over the comm, matching actions to words, and switching back to laser fire.

After the detonation of six missiles in their midst, Krayt squadron’s shields had taken a battering. Before they could adjust their deflector shields, five fighters were hit with laser fire to their sterns. They disintegrated under the onslaught, reducing Krayt Squadron’s advantage to just two to one.

“Great job, Esk! Seven, you have lead, Ten, you’re his wing.”

“Affirmative, Lead. What are you doing?”

“Playing fleethund.” This was risky. Without a wingman, Arlen would need to fly better than he had ever flown before. He took a deep breath, then released it. He adjusted the sensitivity of his flight controls, making them feather light, and peeled off out of formation in the direction Syko’s stricken fighter had spiralled.

Only a pair of First Order fighters followed Arlen, the rest rounding on Madon and Drayen. He needed to do something more dramatic to draw off a few more. He armed his missiles again, and locked onto the Nebulon K. He fired two more missiles.  _ That _ got their attention.

But it didn’t draw away the fighters he’d wanted to draw away. A full squadron disentangled themselves from the swirling dogfight with the X-wings, and roared toward Esk squadron.

Madon’s voice came over the comm, strained by high-gee maneuvers, tight and tense. “It’s been an honor serving with you.”

“It’s not over yet, Ten! Keep fighting!” yelled Drayen, “just watch my six. We can do this!”

Abruptly, the First Order fighters all fled the furball, leaving the X-wings and Interceptors behind. The hairs on the back of Arlen’s neck prickled. Ahead of him, a large opening in the hull of one of the  _ Dissident _ -class ships glowed purple, getting brighter and brighter.

“What the kriff is that?” Drayen said.

The X-wings scattered. Did they know something Arlen didn’t?

“I don’t know. Follow the X-wings,” Arlen said.

A pulse of energy burst from the opening in the ship, spreading out as it drew closer. It was too fast, and spreading too far. They weren’t going to make it.

Arlen’s flight control panel lit up like a life day tree, then everything died. Engines, lasers, and even more troubling, life support.

Smoke curled from around the control panels.

Arlen reached for the hard reset on his console, and toggled it. Nothing happened. On a hunch, he reached for the survival kit stashed on one side of his cockpit, and took the glowlamp out. That too was dead.

An ion pulse had wiped out all the electrical circuits. Judging from the smoke, it had overloaded the wiring itself.

The fact it had wiped out life support was troubling. Unlike in X-wings, TIE Interceptors did not maintain a breathable atmosphere in the cockpit itself, instead only maintaining a breathable atmosphere within the pilot’s flightsuit. It allowed the life support system to be small and lightweight, decreasing the strain on the reactor, and reducing the mass the engines had to push.

It was a good system, when it was working. However, with the life support system fried, it meant the pilot had only whatever oxygen was left in the hoses before unconsciousness, and eventually, death, claimed them. And it would be slow, and painful. Already, Arlen’s lungs were starting to burn with carbon dioxide buildup.

If the First Order intended to capture him, they’d have to be quick about it.

Outside the forward viewport, the other fighters caught in the blast continued on ballistic trajectories. Arlen looked past them to the stars, marvelling, for the first time in years, at the beauty of space.

Arlen closed his eyes, and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Awareness came back to Arlen slowly. He was laying on his back on a cold, hard surface that thrummed beneath him, and there was a ring of pressure around his mouth and nose. Sound, vague and fuzzy filtered into his awareness, resolved into urgent voices.

“-’s not breathing.”

“Then use the BVM.”

“Why bother? Temarch’s just going to kill him anyway.”

It took a moment for it to sink in that they couldn't be talking about him. He was breathing, drinking in oxygen greedily.

“Do you want to be reconditioned?”

“No, but…”

Arlen opened his eyes, then closed them immediately, the light so bright it burned, and left dancing afterimages in his eyes.

Once he’d closed his eyes, Arlen couldn't find the will to open them again.

Arlen awoke again to a booted toe kicking his side.

“Get up, traitor.”

Arlen saw the blaster rifle pointed at his face before he saw the trooper holding it, and scrambled to his feet.

“Hands on your head.”

Arlen complied.

Another person behind him grabbed Arlen’s right wrist and clipped a binder around it, then pulled it down behind his back before grabbing Arlen’s left wrist and securing it in the other side of the binder.

He was escorted out of the room, and down a ramp. Ahead of him stretched a vast hangar deck. Madon and Drayen knelt a short distance from him, blasters leveled at their heads, hands bound behind their backs. He was forced to his knees beside them. Madon appeared unharmed, but blood dripped from Drayen’s nose, and from a deep gouge near his temple. Arlen guessed Drayen had fought with the troopers before they restrained him.

A thump behind them made Arlen twist his head to look back. An X-wing rested on the deck, its landing gear still folded inside its fuselage. Inside, he saw the pilot’s head moving.

“Eyes front, pilot!” snapped one of the stormtroopers.

Arlen looked forward again.

The next thing he knew, the troopers were yelling loudly, weapons raised. Then, there was a loud bang, and Arlen was thrown flat on his face. Heat and pain lanced into his back, shoulders, and hands. His ears rang. He only dimly heard the blaster fire that zinged overhead towards the X-wing, then stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Despite the damage to his hearing, Arlen heard someone, several someones, screaming behind him, one voice higher pitched than the others.

A trooper hauled Arlen to his knees, and put a hood over his head, plunging him into darkness.

The screaming continued as booted feet raced past Arlen.

Suddenly, Arlen was picked up and half dragged, half marched forward, leaving the screaming behind. A change in sound suggested they'd entered a smaller space, likely a corridor. They stopped for a while, then a door hissed open, and he was shoved forward a couple of steps. Doors hissed again. Judging from the sudden lightheadedness that came over Arlen, he suspected they’d boarded a turbolift going down.

The turbolift came to a stop, and once again, Arlen was dragged around. Here, the deckplates hummed underfoot. Perhaps they were closer to the reactor core or the engines now?

Another halt.

“Identify yourself,” a haughty voice said.

The trooper shook Poe’s arm, forcing him to stumble. “Answer him.”

“Captain Arlen Tarra, Imperial Navy, Starfighter Corps, under Admiral Dystra’s command.”

“Cell 431,” the haughty voice said.

At this, Arlen was dragged forward again.

He heard Drayen’s voice, but not the specific words he said, before he was out of hearing range.

A short walk later another door hissed opened, and he was bundled forward. The door hissed shut behind him.

For a while, he stood still, unsure of where he was. Slowly, it dawned on him that he couldn't hear anyone around him. He was alone. He stomped his foot and listened. No detectable echoes. He was in a smaller space than before, probably a detention cell.

Arlen turned around, two right turns as if he was on parade, knowing he’d be facing the door if he did it that way. He sank down to his knees. The floor beneath him was covered in a layer of grating, judging from the regular pattern of sharp edges that dug into his knees. He reached back and down with his fingers, and recoiled at the pain touching them to the deck plates caused. The explosion had injured his hands, and if the feel of heat and wetness in his shoulder was any indication, his shoulder too.

He stood again, and slow-marched forwards, his feet barely skimming over the ground. One, two, on the next step, his toes met the wall. He turned around again, and backed up against the door, then slow-marched forwards. Three full strides before his toes hit the opposite wall.

He did another right turn, then stepped forward. Only half a stride before he collided with the wall. Another about face, another stride, just one, before he found a wall. Definitely a detention cell.

Arlen tilted his head forward slowly, to see whether it was open space or wall ahead of him. He found nothing but empty space. Likely the bunk.

Eventually, Arlen’s cell door hissed open. Once again, he was manhandled to his feet, and marched at a swift pace. They didn't pull his hood off until they came to a halt. Squinting his eyes against the bright light, he looked around. They were in an interrogation room.

The troopers raised Arlen’s hands above his head, and hung the binders over a hook suspended from the ceiling, then restrained both feet to shackles attached to the floor, before taking guard positions near the door. Unable to move, Arlen was forced to look at the interrogation tools laid out in perfect order on a metal table in front of him. He had a long time to look at them before he heard booted footsteps behind him.

An Intelligence officer stepped in front of Arlen, blocking his view of the tools. Dark haired with icy blue eyes, she looked like a young Ysanne Isard, former leader of the Galactic Empire. She wasn't naturally black haired, however, the honey brown roots, visible at the parting in her hair, giving the game away.

A spherical droid, though not of the kind Arlen had dreaded he would see, floated behind the Intelligence officer.

“State your name, rank, and serial number,” the woman said.

“Tarra, Arlen, Captain, TIE-DL-25-20.”

“Homeworld?”

“I can't tell you that. I can only tell you my name, rank, and serial number.”

“Captain, I find, on the whole, that interrogations are much more pleasant for both involved when they are actually a dialogue. Finding out your homeworld is unlikely to compromise any operational security for Rago sector. But perhaps you need some encouragement? If you tell me your homeworld, I will summon a medical droid to treat your wounds.”

Arlen considered for a moment before answering. His identity was a fake anyway, and wouldn’t lead her back to anyone. “Corellia.”

The Intelligence officer removed her commlink from her pocket. “Major Temarch requesting a medical droid for interrogation room D5.”

Putting her commlink away, Temarch smiled. “You see, things go wonderfully when you cooperate. Your surviving pilots did say you were intelligent and reasonable.”

Survivors. Some of his squadron had survived. Arlen’s heart soared. While it was unwise to become attached to the pilots under your command in the Imperial Navy, it was difficult not to when you spent most of your waking life with them. “How many survivors?”

“Three, including yourself.”

“Who?”

The major looked at her datapad. “Lieutenant…” the woman scowled, and Arlen could’ve sworn he saw her mind working while she did, “Jas’syko’mitth and Flight Officer Drayen.”

Arlen slumped into his restraints, tears welling in his eyes. Of all those people Arlen served with, Syko was his closest friend. They'd survived flight school together, survived their first five combat deployments together, survived everything the New Republic had thrown at them, and now they'd survived an attack by the First Order. How Syko had survived a shot through the center of the viewport, Arlen had no idea, but the Chiss had always had the sort of luck any Corellian would envy.

Drayen’s survival was a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. He was stubborn, and that determination to keep going when others would give up made all the difference. The sudden realisation that Arlen didn't feel the same swell of emotions about Drayen as he had about Syko brought a pang of guilt with it.

Arlen’s guts twisted themselves in knots when he saw a calculating smile form on Temarch’s face.

“Your squadron can't have gotten here under its own power. Were your squadron deployed from the New Republic cruiser?” Temarch asked.

That he could answer without compromising anything. “No. We were engaged in a defence action against their fighters and bombers. You arrived at an opportune moment, scaring their cruiser and bombers into fleeing.” His voice came out rougher than he expected, raw, almost gritty, his throat tight.

“What happened to your capital ships?”

Arlen fell silent. If he told her that, it would compromise ongoing operations.

“And you were doing so well,” Temarch said. “If you won't speak of your own volition, then I'll have to resort to more drastic measures.”

“I'm not telling you anything else. I've told you everything I was willing to tell you.”

“Very well.” Temarch turned to look at the interrogation tools. “We’ll start with something simple, I think.”

She picked up one of the tools, and turned around. She held the hypospray in front of her and pressed a vial into it, then adjusted the dosage.

Temarch pressed the business end of the hypospray to Arlen’s neck. It stung no more than any medical hyposprays he'd been given. “Are you familiar with skirtopanol, Captain?”

“It's a truth serum.”

“In particular, it reduces inhibitions, and heightens sensitivity. How does your shoulder feel, Captain?”

Arlen grimaced as the tingling in his shoulder intensified. Whether it was because he'd been reminded of it again and his mental block against the pain had been broken because of that, or it was the effects of the skirtopanol, was hard to say.

“I can make the pain go away, if you'll tell me what I need to know. Tell me where your capital ships are.”

Arlen remained silent.

Temarch put on a pair of medical gloves. “Still uncooperative? Let me inform you of something, it is never a case of whether someone will break, but a case of when. All beings can be broken, Captain. I will extract the information from you. It is your choice how much you are willing to endure.”


	4. Chapter 4

Soaked with water from several simulated drownings, Arlen shivered in the artificially cold environment. His flightsuit had been replaced with a thin grey prison jumpsuit after the medical droid had treated his injuries, and the thin fabric, still saturated with water, did nothing to keep him warm.

He sat awkwardly on the edge of the bunk, forced to lean forward to allow space for his hands. Bound from just above the elbows, all the way to his wrists, his arms were pulled tight against his back. The tension it caused in his shoulders, back, and chest alternated between dull aching and fierce throbbing.

So far, Arlen had not broken. However, the interrogation methods Temarch had applied were relatively mild, and besides using no sedatives nor painkillers to treat his wounds, they were techniques he had been exposed to already.

Giving skirtopanol before treating someone's wounds without painkillers or sedatives was fiendishly clever, as the heightened sensations meant the procedures themselves were torturous, yet did no additional damage. Even now, the skirtopanol in his system was making the ordeal of his stress position unbearable in a very short amount of time.

They couldn't keep him bound like this for long without doing serious damage, so he assumed he would likely see Temarch again soon.

The light in Arlen’s cell went off, plunging him into darkness. The humming in the deckplates strengthened, and then there was a jolt as the ship lurched. Then, all went calm. They’d entered hyperspace.

Arlen waited, counting heartbeats. Sixty beats later, the lights remained off. They'd been in hyperspace long enough it hadn't simply been a micro jump within the system, they were almost certainly going further afield.

Poe couldn't remember closing his eyes, but a loud klaxon startled him awake, and he sprung from the bunk before his brain could catch up and remember where he was, who he was pretending to be.

 _I’m Arlen Tarra, Imperial ace pilot, I’m from Corellia_ , he reminded himself.

He waited some time, expecting the door to his cell to open, or the lights to be turned on, but neither happened. He laid back down on the bunk, and drifted off to sleep again.

This cycle of sleep and sudden klaxons repeated many times. Three cycles in, Arlen figured out that they were doing this intentionally. They were depriving him of sleep and keeping his adrenaline levels high. Classic torture techniques, designed to disorient and confuse.

Finally, the lights came on, and his cell door hissed open. Arlen leapt to his feet and faced the door, eyes squinted against the bright light. Behind it stood Temarch and two stormtroopers.

Temarch stepped inside his cell, followed by one of the troopers. The trooper grabbed Arlen roughly, and spun him around. He released Arlen’s arms from their bindings, then set an unopened self-heating ration can down on the bunk beside Arlen.

Pain prickled through Arlen’s arms as circulation returned to his arms. They fell dead to his sides. Without his shoulder blades pinched together, his back and shoulders protested as the muscles were forced to stretch.

“I trust you slept well, Tarra,” Temarch said, gloating sarcasm turning her voice to dripping acid. “If you can open the ration can, you may eat.”

Arlen looked down at his arms, and tried to move his fingers. They twitched, stiff and swollen. Try though he might, however, Arlen couldn't lift his arms.

Eventually, Temarch took the ration tin, and turned it in her hands. “If you tell me where your capital ships are, I'll have the trooper feed you.”

He wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Not yet. Arlen looked away from her. “I'm not hungry.”

“Very well,” Temarch and the trooper left.

 

While it was difficult to judge the passage of time, Arlen was fairly sure he was left alone for most of the day.

Hunger had just begun to set in when the door to his cell opened again. A stormtrooper stood in the doorway, rifle raised.

“Get down on the ground,” the trooper ordered.

Arlen didn't move, curious to find out how far he could push before suffering consequences for his disobedience.

Less than a minute passed before the trooper repeated his command.

Again, Arlen waited.

One of the trooper’s hands dropped from his rifle, and reached for the door controls.

Arlen’s bare feet tingled, then his body jolted as his muscles contracted all at once. He didn't remember falling down, but found himself on the ground, heart thundering in his chest, and body prickling as though he was being stabbed with thousands of vibroblades. A taste that reminded him of thunderstorms back home on Yavin IV clung to his tongue. _No, not Yavin, Corellia. Remember your cover identity._

The trooper stepped forward, and kicked Arlen over onto his stomach. The trooper secured Arlen’s arms behind his back with binders, and dragged him to his feet, then out into the hallway.

They turned right in the hallway, toward the interrogation room. Arlen’s mouth went dry, his palms sweaty, his heart still racing.

Just before they reached the interrogation room, stormtroopers dragged a shirtless man out of it. Blood ran from thousands of cuts in the man’s sepia skin. His head hung down, chin almost to his chest.

Except for having blue eyes, and being leaner in the face, Drayen reminded him of Finn. The resemblance was close enough to be uncomfortable at the best of times, but now, seeing the results of Temarch’s work…

A lump formed in Poe’s throat. “Finn…” Poe fought free of the trooper escorting him, and rushed over to Drayen.

Drayen lifted his head, and locked his sky blue eyes on Poe’s. “They didn't ask me any questions…”

Hearing Drayen’s voice was enough to bring Poe’s mind back to the here and now. This was not Finn. Finn was safe, far from here. Poe was not his name right now, it was Arlen.

“Keep fighting, Drayen,” he said. “We’ll get out of here.”

The trooper grabbed his arm again, and yanked him into the interrogation room. Arlen’s stomach lurched. Blood covered the floor, more splashes of it on the walls and ceiling.

Temarch too was covered in Drayen’s blood, though she wore a protective face shield and clear coverall over her uniform.

Arlen’s skin crawled as he wondered what Temarch had planned for him.

“You have a chance to save your subordinates from this, Tarra,” Temarch said. “All you have to do is tell me what I want to know.”

Temarch picked up the tray of tools. “I'll let you think that through while you clean this mess up. You have an hour. I expect it to be spotless.”

Temarch walked out with her tray of tools.

A young woman in a maintenance coverall walked in, set down a bucket of soapy water and a toothbrush, then left, closing the door behind her.

Arlen shook his head. Temarch intended him to fail the task. No doubt, she had something planned as a punishment.

While the trooper removed his binders, Arlen thought of ways to succeed at the task. If he succeeded at it, it would force Temarch to reevaluate him, and her plans for how to break him. It would be a way to prove he wasn't as powerless as she wanted him to feel.

What he needed to succeed at the task was a cleaning implement with a larger surface area. He looked down at his jumpsuit. That’d do it.

Though the jumpsuit was made of thin fabric, it was surprisingly strongly assembled, and it took a lot of effort before Arlen could tear a sleeve off it.

The trooper tilted his head as he watched Arlen tear the sleeve off, but otherwise didn’t move.

Arlen dunked the sleeve in the bucket of water, and started scrubbing. At first, it was difficult to not recoil from the blood on his hands, but eventually, he settled into a rhythm: dunk, scrub, rinse, repeat.

 

After an hour, Temarch returned to an almost spotless interrogation room. Almost, because Arlen’s plan to have it absolutely spotless was thwarted by being just a little too short to clean the spots of blood from the ceiling.

Temarch looked coolly at Arlen. “Clever. But not good enough.” She looked at the ceiling. “There’s still blood on the ceiling,” then gestured at his jumpsuit, “and you’ve destroyed First Order property.”

Arlen shrugged. “You set me up to fail. You planned on punishing me anyway.”

Temarch smiled, ever so slightly. “There is hope for you. Are you willing to tell me where your fleet is?”

“No.”

“That’s unwise. I know how to break you, Tarra. Your weakness is your subordinates. Hurting you achieves very little. Hurting others, that hurts you.”

Temarch looked at the trooper. “Cuff him.”

Arlen thought about fighting back, then reconsidered. Temarch was right, she could break him, by hurting Syko and Drayen. And if he fought, she might do that.

He let the trooper put the binders back on his wrists.

“Put the hood on him, then follow me. Bring him with you,” Temarch said.

The trooper took a hood from Temarch, then put it over Arlen’s head.

Unable to rely on his sense of sight, Arlen reached out with his other senses. They turned left out of the interrogation room, back toward his cell. But they walked past his cell, then into a larger space.

A few more steps took them into a smaller space again, then the sound of motors running, and the feeling of his stomach sinking. A turbolift, going up, he guessed.

The engine noise was quieter on the deck the turbolift came to a stop on, replaced instead with the sound of people and droids moving around.

They turned left out of the turbolift, walked a long way before making another left turn. With the distance they'd walked, Arlen was fairly certain they'd traveled down one of the main corridors that ran most of the length of the ship, which meant he was near the heart of the ship.

The sharp smell of antiseptic and the cloyingly sweet scent of bacta told Arlen they were approaching the med bay. They stepped through doors that hissed shut behind them. Here, the whirrs and beeps of medical equipment dominated.

A few more strides, and the hood was yanked from his head again. Unconscious on the medical cot in front of him lay Syko, a tangle of wires and tubes covering him. His face was almost unrecognizable under a mess of bandages. Blood speckled the bandages, soaked through, and Syko’s chest rose and fell in time with the ventilator beside him.

Beside Syko stood Temarch. “I thought it important that you see Jas’syko’mitth was alive. We are not unreasonable, Captain. However, it is difficult to justify the cost of his medical care when we have gained nothing from it.”

Arlen forced himself to tear his eyes from Syko to fix Temarch with a cold stare.

“It would be easier to justify if you were to tell me the location of your capital ship.”

Arlen dropped his gaze, and stared at the floor at his feet. He took a deep breath, and released it. "Admiral Dystra is stationed four parsecs off the Rago Run, near Sinton. I can't be more specific than that, I don't know the exact location. It was never disclosed to me."

Temarch smiled. "Good. Who's Finn?"


	5. Chapter 5

“No-one.” Just saying the words, Poe felt like he’d torn out his heart and trampled all over it.

“I don’t believe you,” Temarch answered. “Try again. Who is Finn?”

Poe shook his head. “I told you, he’s no-one.”

Temarch took a datapad out of a pocket in the chest of her uniform jacket. “I still don’t believe you. I’m going to run my theory past you.” She looked down at her datapad, then up at Poe. “I think this Finn you’re talking about is FN-2187.”

Poe looked up, fire and defiance in his eyes, but said nothing.

Temarch’s smile widened. “And you are Poe Dameron.”

Poe glanced at Syko, then back to Temarch. “I may not have signed up with the First Order, Major, but I am aware of the multiple death marks against Finn and Dameron. If you really believed I was Poe Dameron, you’d already have me under tighter security, and you’d have contacted either General Hux or Kylo Ren. You have your doubts, so you’ve done none of those things. You wouldn’t be threatening Syko and Drayen to try force me to cooperate if you were certain you were correct.”

“Don’t play sabacc, Dameron. You’ve got too many tells.” Temarch said. “But you’re correct, I haven’t contacted my superiors yet.”

Poe frowned. “You have something else planned.”

“You’ve already shown an aptitude for flying TIE variants. You will fly for me, as Arlen Tarra. You can refuse, of course, but should you do so, you will be turned over to General Hux. He hasn’t forgotten your little stunt over D’Qar.”

Poe frowned. Being turned over to Hux was not an ideal scenario, especially given the utter humiliation he’d given him two years ago. Undoubtedly, he’d also be taken to Kylo Ren. Poe shuddered. Even years later, the feeling of Ren ripping through his mind was fresh and raw.

Poe counted everything blue in the room to try bring his mind back to the present.

No, being sent to Hux was not acceptable. But neither was flying for the First Order. True, he had been flying for the Imperial Remnant for the past several months, but that had been part of a planned infiltration, with the hope that he could discover more about the First Order’s movements. Flying for the enemy, he could do a lot of damage to the Resistance.

However, if he flew for Temarch, he would eventually learn more about the First Order’s plans. In a way, the mission had worked, just not quite in the way he’d hoped.

“Why?” Poe asked. “Why do you want me to fly for you? What do you gain from it?”

“It means you’re not flying for the Resistance,” Temarch answered matter-of-factly.

Poe nodded. “That would also be true if you turned me over to Hux. So what’s the real reason?”

“I have no desire to serve under a grown man with psychological problems that would require reconditioning if detected in his underlings. I believe such leadership weakens the First Order, and leaves it vulnerable. I want to eradicate Kylo Ren. Your piloting skill opens up options in how to achieve my objective.”

“Guarantee Syko and Drayen’s safety, and I’ll do it.” Poe said.

“I can’t guarantee their safety, as the plan is to have them join you.”

  
  
  


Finn walked into the briefing room, pleased to see that most of those he’d summoned there were already there. The last few stragglers walked in a few moments after he did, and sat down near the back of the briefing room.

Mercifully for his sense of smell, their Force-sensitive Mandalorian compatriot, Galaar, had left his strill pup in his quarters. It wasn’t the only pet aboard the Far Orbit; Former First Order TIE pilot Casey’s scurrier sat at its master’s feet, gnawing on a nerf hoof.

Finn pressed a button on the console in front of him, dimming the lights, and turning on the holoprojector. The room fell into an expectant silence. Finn took a breath, reminded himself to stay professional, and speak calmly.

“We lost contact with General Dameron two days ago. While the contingency orders allow for three days before enacting the extraction plan, the First Order has forced our hand.”

Finn pressed another button on the display. The display changed to a flat plane showing an in-cockpit view from an X-wing. Ahead of it was a squadron of TIE Interceptors. Finn hit play.

“When New Republic forces traveled to the Rago sector to confront Admiral Dystra’s sector command about non-compliance with the Military Disarmament Act, a First Order fleet jumped into the system.”

As he spoke, the footage rolled forward, showing the arrival of the First Order fleet.

Casey’s brow furrowed, and he leaned forward, looking intently at the holo footage. “Sir?”

Finn looked at Casey. “Yes?”

“Can you rewind that footage, and zoom in on the First Order Squadron furthest to the port side of the formation?”

Finn looked down at the controls on the holotable, then pressed a few buttons to rewind the footage. It took a few more moments for him to  remember which buttons would allow him to zoom in on a particular area of the footage, but eventually, he managed to do so.

Casey stared intently at the footage. “I know that squadron. That’s Vornskr Squadron, my old outfit. That would mean this is Sixth Fleet. Their capital ship is the Cataclysm, commanded by Admiral Thorne. She was a bridge officer aboard the Chimera under Grand Admiral Thrawn and Captain Pellaeon.

“Sixth Fleet has strong ties to the Chiss Ascendancy. It was often stationed within Ascendancy space. If it’s near Rago, it’s likely other First Order fleets have been returned to their normal duty stations.”

Galaar tilted his head, then waved his hands in a rapid series of movements. The speaker in his armor translated his sign language into Galactic Basic. “How can you tell? Aren’t all First Order fighters the same?”

Casey nodded. “With only a few exceptions, they are, but most squadrons have idiosyncrasies in their maneuvers and piloting. There are many reasons for that, but for now, all you need to know is that it means squadrons will have signature flight characteristics. The First Order doesn’t like that fact, of course, but attempts at reconditioning pilots for those idiosyncrasies had a deleterious effect on combat effectiveness.”

“Interesting. You’ve identified the capital ship correctly. The accompanying mission reports corroborate your assessment, Casey.” Beruss, one-time Wraith and son of two retired Rogues nodded thoughtfully, and added a note to his datapad. “I want to pick your brains about identifying squadrons from those idiosyncrasies later, Casey.”

Casey nodded. “Of course.”

Finn looked at those involved in the conversation, waiting for them to return their attention to the briefing he was giving.

“The New Republic forces fled the system. They sent a rescue and reconnaissance mission six hours later to attempt to  recover one of their own pilots.”

Finn pressed the button again. The footage now showed the view from inside an A-wing.

“As you can see, there’s no sign of the First Order fleet. The reconnaissance pilot scanned for transponder beacons, and found only First Order fighters, and eight TIE Interceptors. General Dameron’s fighter is among those Interceptors unaccounted for. The X-wing of their missing pilot is also unaccounted for.

“If General Dameron had been picked up by Admiral Dystra, he would have been in contact with us. The most likely conclusion is that General Dameron has been captured by the First Order.

“I need volunteers for two missions. The first mission is reconnaissance. We have the last known heading of the First Order fleet, but we don’t know the destination.

“The second mission requires us to make direct contact with Admiral Dystra. He may welcome our assistance in tracking down the First Order, after they destroyed one of his bases in the sector.”

Captain Beruss raised his hand. “Sir, NRI may have picked up comms chatter that can confirm Dameron’s capture. Let me call in a few favours.”

“Excellent. How long will that take?” Finn asked.

Beruss shrugged. “Contacting them is easy enough, but I don’t know how long it would take to filter through thousands of files to find the ones I’m looking for. I can do the recon flight and get the data-mining done during hyperspace jumps.”

Kiax shook his head. “No, leave the data analysis to me. It was part of my job with CorSec. Just get me the files, and leave me to it.”

“I’ll still do the recon mission, though,” Beruss offered. “My fighter has a more advanced sensor package, I should be able to pick up data from further out than the rest of the fighters can.”

“I’ll talk to Admiral Dystra,” Galaar signed. “Mandalorians do have a reputation for being bounty hunters, so he’s more likely to just think I’m being very precocious in trying to get a paying job.”

Kiax looked at Galaar. “Take your bounty hunting license with you. If he does offer to pay you to track down his missing pilots, take the credits. We could use them for operational budget.”

Galaar shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t. I need the credits for an upcoming medical expense. I have to go for another cancer scan. If there’s any credits left over, the Resistance can have them, but I’m sorry, my health has to come first.”

“That’s fair,” Kiax said.

Finn looked at Casey. “Casey, you’re the expert on Sixth Fleet. I’d like you to go with Beruss on that recon mission.”

Casey glanced at the door, then looked at Finn, his jaw tense, mismatched green and hazel eyes looking through him as much as at him. Finn knew that look, Casey was afraid of the assignment. After a moment’s hesitation, Casey spoke. “Yes, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while since I updated. A new job and a new apartment, and the seasonal increase in one of my hobbies have left me with little time and energy for writing. I'm back though, and with a couple of chapters ready to go.


End file.
